Page 169 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

‘I think I’ll leave you two alone,’ the man murmured, slipping away while Mia simply stared at Santos, her face still deathly pale.

He folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to speak. Surely, she would saysomething—apologise, explain? Stammer something, at least, even if he already knew nothing she could say would make much of a difference. She’d left him without a single word six weeks ago, slipping away in the night like a thief. She’d never let him know where or how she was or if she was even alive. She had alotof explaining to do, Santos thought with a cold fury that he feared masked a far worse hurt.

And yet she didn’t say a word. After a second, her gaze flicked away from him, almost as if he’d been dismissed. The fury he’d been keeping on a tight rein burst into flame and made the pain in his head a thousand times worse. After six weeks of silence, this was what he got—absolutely nothing? He reached for her arm, her skin soft and cool beneath his touch.

Mia tensed as his fingers curled around her wrist. ‘Let go of me, Santos,’ she said in a low voice that trembled. She wasn’t looking at him.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he replied grimly, and she jerked her arm away from him.

‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’

She cradled her arm to her chest as if he’d hurt her, but Santos knew he hadn’t. He’d barely touched her, and yet she was acting as though he was a bully, a threat, a danger. How hadthathappened? She was the one at fault in this scenario. She was the one who had run away without a word...and he wanted to know why.

‘Mia, you’re my wife,’ he told her. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘We might be married, but you don’t own me,’ she fired back, and he took a slow, steadying breath. Responding in anger—as much as he was tempted to—wasn’t going to help things, and it would make his head blaze all the more.

‘We need to talk at least,’ he stated. ‘In private. Surely you owe me that much?’

She hesitated, and he saw the shadow of something in her eyes—something like regret, or maybe just guilt. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, and, with a slump of her slender shoulders she finally relented.

‘All right,’ she said, her tone both wary and defeated, and then she glanced around in furtive apprehension. Who was she looking for—the man she’d been talking to? Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Santos was used to feeling. He certainly didn’t like it, but damn it, they weremarried. Hadn’t their vows meant anything to her?

‘Where should we go?’ she asked and once again he swallowed down the anger and the hurt.

‘My yacht is moored in the harbour.’

Her eyes widened and she hesitated, clearly not liking the idea of going there with him. Why not? Was she actually afraid of him? He’d never, ever given her reason to be.

‘I’m not going to kidnap you, Mia, if that’s what kind of nonsense you’re thinking,’ he told her tersely. ‘But my yacht is private and comfortable and not too far away.’ And he needed the quiet as much as the privacy to keep the pain in his head at bay.

She bit her lip and then nodded. ‘All right,’ she said for a second time, a concession, and she reached down to grab a bag which she slung over one shoulder. Santos realised it was the same beat-up backpack she’d had back when they’d first met. It looked incongruous against her emerald satin dress. She hesitated and then she glanced around again.

‘Who are you looking for?’ Santos demanded. ‘That chancer who was chatting you up?’

‘What? No.’ She shook her head, tumbled waves flying. ‘No, the owner of the bar. I was here for a job.’

Ajob? He could buy this whole bar with his pocket change. Why on earth would she be looking for a job here? He decided they could talk about that later. There were more pressing matters to deal with first.

‘You can send him your apologies,’ he told her, and put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward with firm decision. ‘Now, let’s go.’

Mia’s mind was reeling, the space on the small of her back where Santos had pressed his palm burning as if she’d been singed. He’d always had that effect on her, right from the first night they’d met, when she’d handed him his whiskey sour and her fingers had brushed his, sending an electric current all the way up her arm and straight to her heart.

If you’re going to play with fire...prepare to get burned.

A shudder went through her that she tried to suppress, not wanting Santos to see how his presencestillaffected her. She’d never expected to see him again. She’d thought him too proud a man to go chasing after her and, in any case, he’d beentiredof her, hadn’t he? Exhausted and utterly fed up—at least, he’d certainly acted as if he had been. The last six weeks of their marriage had been interminable, unbearable, each day more difficult than the one before, until she’d felt she couldn’t stand another moment, not without losing some essential part of herself. Running away had felt like the only option.

And it’s what you’ve always done before.

They made their way through the crowded bar, Santos’s hand on her back the whole time, guiding her forward. Mia wasn’t actually being frog-marched, but she felt as if she was. The pressure of his hand was firm, insistent, and she could feel each individual long and lean finger against her spine like a brand. What did he actuallywantwith her? She’d genuinely believed he would be relieved to see the back of her. He’d surely regretted their brief whirlwind of a marriage; he’d certainly acted as if he had.

So why was he here? Mia supposed she’d find out soon enough.

They made it through the bar and down the stairs, out into the street facing the promenade. A balmy, brine-tinged breeze blew over them, cooling Mia’s heated cheeks as she gazed out at the port with its flotilla of super-yachts. She’d never actually been on Santos’s yacht. She’d never even known he had one, although she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he did. He was a man who had just about everything. Except the one thing he’d really wanted: achild. A child of their own...and she hadn’t given it to him.

Guilt, regret and grief burned like acid in her throat, forming a lump that made it hard to swallow.Forget about that, she told herself. They weren’t going to talk about it. They certainly never had before.

‘So, where is this yacht of yours?’ she asked, and he nodded towards one of the more streamlined of them, two stripes of grey and gold on its hull—the Aguila colours, after their eagle crest. Mia squared her shoulders, trying to suppress the fizz of nerves in her stomach. She had no real reason to think Santos would kidnap her; he’d said he wouldn’t. In fact, she thought quite the opposite—he’d be more likely to heave her overboard than kidnap her, although she didn’t really think he’d do that either. So, what exactly was she afraid of?

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